


A Moment To Breathe

by ShannaraIsles



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Demons, F/M, Flashback, Fluff, Gift Fic, Haven, Injury, Love at First Sight, Memory, Smitten, Temple of Sacred Ashes, dream - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 00:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16545248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannaraIsles/pseuds/ShannaraIsles
Summary: That first moment of meeting, and knowing that your life will never again be the same.





	A Moment To Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lumidee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumidee/gifts).



Pain. It lances up from your heel, spiking at your knee, burying itself deep in the throbbing heat of blood trickling from your thigh. All around you, the snow is littered with ravaged masonry, the bodies of innocent men and women thrown hither and yon around you, some still living, most clearly dead. And high above, whirling in the cloud-wracked sky, some portal bathed in Fade-light, huge and menacing, a harbinger of doom upon all the world.

What happened here?

You remember leaving the Temple, sent on an errand by Lord Trevelyan to liaise with his accompanying guard in the valley below. Nothing had seemed out of place; a little tension, perhaps, with mages and templars in such close proximity, but that tension was assuaged by the certainty that neither side would erupt into violence under the auspices of the Conclave called by Divine Justinia herself. There had been laughter as you delivered your message to the captain of the Trevelyan guard, old friends among the soldiers teasing you for being the little lordling's messenger for this trip, and then ...

A sound so loud there were no words that could describe it. A great shuddering that felled many, including you, dropping you into the packed snow beside the shaking stone arches. A blast of silent force that lifted you up from where you had fallen, throwing you away from the crumbling building, into the deeper snow. You remember the pain of that landing, the origin of the pain now lancing through your leg; you remember squeezing your eyes shut in the hope that it would all go away. And when, finally, the noise and the shaking and the horrific terror faded ... you dared to look around you once more.

Your breath fogs in the air as you breathe, the chill wind sweeping down the valley freezing your bloodied clothing to your skin, bearing with it the scent of smoke and death. Nearby, you can hear the groans of others who survived that terrible blast, raising your eyes to the Temple.

To where the Temple _should_ be.

Instead, a jagged ruin stands dark against the unnatural green light, the slow pulsing insanity of that maelstrom in the sky centered upon it, and from within, the screams of something inhuman. Many somethings, it seems, shrieking and clawing their way to life, the sound striking pure fear deep into your heart. As you watch, the sound intensifies, grows louder, clearer, and suddenly you see movement on the edge of the ruined temple.

A flash of that green fade-light springs into being, a pulsing, twisting gateway through which gnarled and deformed creatures push their way to this world. Your breath catches painfully in your throat, the sudden knowledge of your own helplessness crashing in all around you.

_Demons._

And you lie here, unable to bring yourself to motion, watching death creep toward you with all the promise of certain pain, claws reaching, eyes blazing, mouths open in hungry anticipation of the feast you will make for the evil that has been let into the world.

Slowly, it creeps, savoring the fear that rolls from you in sharp waves, reveling in the panic that rises as you hear the other survivors around you scream in pain and anguish, caught in the claws of other demons. Your own personal death rises above you, one spindly limb raised, steel-tipped claws glinting in the unnatural light ... and screams as a heavy sword swings through the air, cleaving its torso in two. A sob of sheer relief escapes your throat as the demon crumples around the blade, your tension fleeing in shocked wonder at the rescue you had never even imagined might come.

The blade pulls free, and you see your rescuer outlined against the sickening Fade-light. Golden hair shines atop his head, the dark pelt of a mountain lion wraps broad shoulders atop a breastplate spattered with ichor and blood. He turns his head toward the sounds of others fighting, and your breath hitches yet again, entranced by the profile of his face. Then he speaks, and that voice is music to your ears.

"Remove the survivors, set up a perimeter around this rift."

He cleans his sword, sheaths it, and in one smooth motion, kneels beside you, gloved hands reaching to take your frozen fingers, to tilt your head until you meet his whiskey-bright gaze. Those intoxicating eyes lock with yours and, for what feels like a wonderful eternity, he does not look away. His gaze softens, his touch gentles, and for the first time since that terrible blast, you feel safe.

"Maker's breath," he says, and even his voice has gentled from that first authoritative command. "How badly are you hurt?"

"I-I ..."

You swallow, only now realizing how dry the cold terror has made your throat. Those eyes are so beautiful, so gentle and concerned, that you cannot quite tear your gaze from his. Only when he drops his eyes to the blood staining your thigh do you come to your senses, hissing at the burning sting as he reaches to investigate your wound.

"Ah ... forgive me," he murmurs, wincing with each sound or flinch that betrays your acute discomfort. "You cannot walk on this leg."

"I-I could try," you offer, but he shakes his head, removing a loop of cloth from the sash about his waist.

You bite down on a pained cry as he lifts your leg just enough to tuck the cloth beneath it, squeezing your eyes shut. The world spins in a nauseating spiral of throbbing, flickering agony, barely aware of the cloth being pulled tight to slow your bleeding. But what brings you back to yourself is his voice murmuring to you, his warm hands bare against your cheeks, stroking your hair, coaxing you back to calmness as the pain fades once more. You open your eyes, and there he is, mere inches away, the warmth of his brown eyes filling the world with soothing tenderness.

And all at once, you feel your heart lurch. Never mind the pain, never mind the danger, never mind the aching cold that presses in all around you; all you can see is the care in his eyes, the concern he feels for you - a person you are certain he has never even seen before today - the need he has to make sure you are cared for and protected. He even smiles, just a little, a faint quirk of his mouth pulling the scar that adorns his upper lip taut as he brushes your hair from your face.

"Commander, should I have the stretcher brought up?"

You bite down on an inadvertent scowl at the interruption, watching as your rescuer looks to the girl who spoke. He frowns, glancing back at you, seeming to come to a decision in his own time.

"No, captain, I will go myself," he informs his captain easily, silencing her protest with a shake of his head. "You are quite capable of holding the line here until I return."

Her reluctance is palpable, but you can't help a quiet surge of delight, despite every throb of pain and fear that clouds your mind. He doesn't seem to want to give you into anyone's care. A good commander and a good man ... and looking right at you once more. You gulp, swallowing down the telltale sparkle that betrays your pleasure at his insistence on being your rescuer.

"I am going to lift you up," he warns you. "There is a camp set up not far from here, well-guarded, and a few healers on hand."

Above, the whirling maelstrom pulses again, and you hear the crack from the glowing flicker of Fade-light nearby. He sees the panic rise in your eyes, scooping his arms beneath your legs, around your back, lifting you from the packed snow as his soldiers press in to defend his retreat from the demons that emerge once more. Despite the pain of each step he takes jolting through your injured leg, you feel a thrill at being in his arms, at having the right to wrap your own arms about his shoulders, to rest your cold cheek on the warm fur that mantles his shoulders. You feel safe in his arms, protected against the horror that has suddenly torn the world to pieces.

You are vaguely aware of a strange half-smile on his face as he glances down at you, as he passes swiftly between soldiers on guard and onto a bridge that bears a great gatehouse at either end - one of many bridges on the Penitent's Path from Haven, and an easily defensible place to set up the tents rising on all sides as your rescuer strides toward a harassed-looking man in mage robes. Curious eyes follow his progress, no doubt wondering why the commander has abandoned his post to carry one survivor here to the forward camp when others could easily have been called upon to do so. The mage looks up at your rescuer, down at the blood on your leg, and waves a hand toward the nearest of the tents.

"In there, commander," he says gruffly. "Should be a cot free still."

"Thank you."

Your grip on him tightens as he bends to duck inside the tent, tension rippling through your body when he sets you down on a makeshift cot. Your golden-haired rescuer gently eases his arms from around you, kneeling beside the cot until you can drag your own grip from his shoulders. The space is cramped; a two-man tent with three cots crammed inside, all of them now occupied with your arrival. Your fingers are aching with cold and stiffness as you manage to unhook your grasp from his shoulders, embarrassed to have needed such extra time to let go.

"Sorry," you mumble, but he is already shaking his head.

"Pain is a burden few are accustomed to," he says quietly. "I pray it is one _you_ will not become accustomed to."

"You saved my life," you blurt out, reaching to touch his hand. "Thank you."

His smile flashes into view for the briefest of moments, a burst of sunlight on a gloomy day, soothing the throbbing ache of your pain with a warmth that spreads from your heart in reply.

"It is a life worth saving."

He makes to rise, to leave you and return to his duties. Your hand snaps out to grasp his, clinging to the leather that gloves his fingers as he turns back to look down at you. For one heart-stopping second, no sound comes out, but you push to make yourself heard. You will never forgive yourself if you let him go without asking.

"Who are you?"

His other hand covers yours in a gentle pat. "Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition."

 _Cullen._ The name seeps into your mind, into your heart; a name to put to the face of the man who has saved your life ... in more ways than one. _Cullen Rutherford._

_Cullen._

"Mmm?"

The soft roughness of that voice by your ear rouses you from sleep, and you realize with a familiar flush of heat in your cheeks that you have been talking in your sleep again. Cullen's arm is warm and possessive about your waist, his breath hot against your neck as he half-rouses himself in answer to the sound of his name on your lips.

"Nothing," you whisper, smiling into the darkness as your fingers smooth over his at your waist. "I was dreaming about the day we met."

You feel his lips curve into a sleepy smile against your skin, fighting down a quiet giggle at the ticklish trace of his stubble, letting him tighten his grasp and draw you closer against his chest. His chin lifts, mouth offering a tender touch to the edge of your ear as he murmurs back to you, voice gravelly from sleep.

"I had never seen anything more wonderful than you. Even in pain and frightened, you shone like a beacon amid the terror. I was smitten from the first."

A fond smile lights up your face as the familiar heat spreads from your heart at his loving certainty. Love at first sight, for both of you, and look what it had lead to. With the Inquisition disbanded and all official duty set aside, there could have been despair. But no. With Cullen by your side, in your life, in your heart, you will never despair again.

"I love you, Cullen."

His response is a sleepy echo of your words, a kiss to the back of your neck, a squeeze of that long arm wrapped about your waist. But you don't need the words to know he loves you. You have known for years. It shines forth in everything he does, everything he says, every look he sends your way. That alone was worth being there when the Temple exploded, worth the memory of the pain when you feel the scar left behind on your thigh. A single moment of life or death gave you love in the arms of the man who chose to save you. It is worth anything that came after, everything you might suffer in years to come.

So long as you have your Cullen and a moment to breathe, it will always be worth it.


End file.
